


the days were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple to slice into pieces

by houselannister



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Consensual Kink, F/M, Power Play, Public Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 03:25:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houselannister/pseuds/houselannister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>game of thrones alternate universe</p><p>written for the yescon-asoiaf kink meme community on livejournal.</p><p>prompt: Jaime is a pilot, therefore he can fly Cersei all over the world and they have lots of sex in lots of different places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the days were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple to slice into pieces

**Author's Note:**

> No triggers, except some very light power play. Also, a light trigger for recreational drugs. Nothing hardcore though, I'd wager. Still, it's a kink meme, readers discretion advised.
> 
> The "New York" scene is shamelessly inspired by a scene I have seen in Mad Men season 4, so if it looks familiar it's because it probably is.

* * *

 

They’d had a strict no-shagging-at-work policy for years, but Lord knew it was hard to see her swaying her ass down the airplane aisle in that little pencil skirt. He could have sworn she unbuttoned two buttons more than necessary before every flight just to be sure he could see the lace underneath the white blouse.

They never taught him of the dangers of flying with an erection at aviation school.

 

* * *

 

**1\. Amsterdam**

The plane lands around 10 pm. He sees her standing by the door, smiling politely as the passengers disembark, knowing that’s the part she hates the most: faking pleasantries, nodding and having to be at a stranger’s beck and call. His sister hats being inconvenienced. He’s told her many times, she picked the wrong job.

The hotel is nice enough; not what he would have picked, and certainly way below his sister’s standards, but they only have to spend one night before hopping right back on the plane the following morning. He left his sister at the airport with a promise to see her back in his room that night: she goes out with the other flight attendants, Taena Merryweather, Jocelyn Swyft and that Senelle girl he doesn’t like, swearing she won’t be late. She is late, of course, and it’s past 2 am when she stumbles into his bed.

“Have we ever fucked high?” She dangles a small plastic envelop before his nose. “Bet you daddy would be ashamed of us.”

He’s rusty, and she’s never rolled a joint before in her life. Still, one hour and a half later the pot’s gone and Jaime feels like his head is floating a good three meters above the ground. He barely notices Cersei climbing on top of him and pushing his boxers down, but he does groan when she sinks onto him and throws her head back, rolling her hips against him. He grabs her by her thighs, to fasten her pace because he knows there’s no way in Hell he’s going to last more than ten minutes anyway. And Cersei is moaning and gasping for air, and Jaime finds consolation knowing that she’s just as close as he is.

That’s when she slows down, and something in between a hiccup and a sob curses through her body. He frowns and props himself on his elbows, suddenly worried that he hurt her, anything to explain that. The thing is he is there, with his cock still inside her, and she has stopped moving altogether and it’s absolutely maddening.

“What is it?”

It happens a second time, and then a third time, and Cersei covers her mouth with both hands.

“Cersei?” he asks.

It isn’t until it happens again that he realizes she’s having a fit of laughter, a frankly extraordinary inappropriate mid-fuck fit of giggles that is in no way here nor there, and not Cersei at all, but then he remembers the weed and he is too stoned to be annoyed: he falls back on the mattress and buries his face in his hands.

 

 

**2\. Moscow**

Cersei remembers hearing a story about a guy throwing a bucket of boiling water from his window, and how the water turned to ice before it touched the ground. She’s not used to this: they never fly north, never Russia, that’s Stark business. But they land in Moscow in March and it feels like nothing she ever experienced in any of her other destinations. It’s freezing cold, and she knows if she stands still for more than thirty seconds she’ll turn to ice and never move again.

In her hotel room the temperature is warmer, and all the windows are sealed. Still the chill finds a way in, and she slid further under the duvet, enveloped in the flimsy warmth of her bed. In an hour she’s going to be out there once again, smiling and offering beverages while praying really hard the plane will crash and put an end to it.

When the door opens, she has no doubt as to who the intruder might be. Only one person has the key to her room. She peeks out from under the covers, just enough to see him walking in pushing a tray. “It’s hot in here,” he says, and Cersei pulls the duvet back over her head. He looks handsome, in his uniform. He always does.

“What’s in the tray?” she asks; her voice is muffled by the wool around her. “Breakfast?”

Jaime doesn’t answer, but the mattress creaks and shifts underneath her, and she knows he’s jumped on. She smiles, he doesn’t see it. “Something better,” he says, before pulling the covers off her completely. She groans as the cold hair makes her shiver. She thinks she should know better than to sleep in such a short nightgown when it’s so close to Siberia outside those walls.

Her hands shoot out for the cover, but Jaime’s faster, and he covers her with his body, kissing her, leaving no room for breathing. She relents, eventually: she knows she wouldn’t win against him. And his hands sneaking up her thighs, under the silk of her gown, are not unwelcomed, after all. Until the warmth on her side is replaced by cold, and she gasps and squirms. He keeps her steady under him, pinning her with his weight.

“What the f-” she tries to speak, but then the same coldness is on her breast, circling her right nipple, and she gasps again as it hardens under the ministrations. She looks to the side, and sees the bucket, the bottle of champagne dipped in ice cubes, and the picture forms itself in her mind. He latches onto the skin in between her breasts, then bites at the fabric over her stomach, and she parts her lips. The little ice cube in his hand leaves a wet trail down her front, dampening the white gown.

He only speaks again when his mouth is hot against her underwear, his breath teasing her along with the ice he keeps pressed down on her navel. “How are you liking Moscow?” He slips a finger underneath the fabric and pulls at it, sliding it down her thighs.

She moans when he sucks the cube between his lips and passes it over her folds. “Chilly,” she says, cut off by a sharp yelp at the added friction as he slips a finger inside her. Her hips buck up and she pulls at his hair roughly.

 

 

 

**3\. New York**

His sister is angry again. He said something, though he doesn’t know what precisely, but it pissed her off, and she barely looks at him as they walk down the street. They had dinner with the rest of the crew, in a pizzeria Cersei hated the moment they walked in. He sat next to Addam Marbrand, his co-pilot for the new American route, and Cersei sat across the two of them with Taena Merryweather. She was laughing one minute, sulking the next. He is too arrogant to ask her what pissed her off.

“Got a match?”

The man that appears before them is young, but the beard makes him look scruffy. He wears a hoodie too big for his body, and trousers too low on his hips. Jaime shakes his head, and Cersei tries to keep walking, but the man steps aside and blocks her way. Jaime sees the gun shining in the dark, and he grabs his sister’s arm, pulls her back at his side.

“Look down,” the man hisses, pointing the gun at Cersei, then Jaime, then Cersei again. “Your wallet,” he continues, and Jaime is thinking of Cersei first and foremost, and how he’s supposed to protect her before anything. Despite his ego, he shoves a hand deep into his pocket and finds his wallet, handing it to th man, along with his watch. “Her purse,” the youngster insists, pointing the gun at Cersei now, and Jaime’s blood is boiling in his veins. Cersei holds onto her purse, and Jaime all but snatches it from her. Now, he wagers, is not the time to be clingy or sentimental.

It isn’t until they have nothing left to give that the stranger runs away, down the street, and disappears round the corner. Jaime looks around confused. A woman on the other side of the street looks on the scene briefly before turning her head the opposite way. “What the fuck just happened?” he asks no one. Cersei is breathing heavily when he turns to her, a hand on her stomach. Jaime fears she will retch up in the middle of the sidewalk, so he pulls her into the alley on their right. It’s dark, so dark he can barely make out her features. “Are you okay?”

Cersei doesn’t stop inhaling deeply, every gulp of air shaking her body like a leaf in a stormy wind. He pulls her in and she kisses him, unexpectedly, hungrily. Fear of death had a strange power on human beings, and before he realizes it she’s tugging at his belt, unzipping his trousers and backing into the wall; she raises a leg over his hip, guides him inside her. He looks around frantically, for anyone could walk by and see them, and it would be a tragedy. But she kisses him again, pushes her heel into the back of his thighs, murmurs “Harder,” into his ear, and he does.

 

**4\. Milan**

The _London – Milan_ route is her favourite, because she gets to spend a whole day walking down Via Montenapoleone, and that’s really all she cares about. Jaime never indulges her in that; he is too tired most of the time, so he prefers collapsing onto the first mattress, only to be awake when she’s done maxing out Tywin’s credit card. That takes her less than two hours on a good day, half an hour on a bad one. There are too many Chanel stores in Milan, and Cersei walks by all of them religiously, a sort of reminiscing of Christ’s _via crucis_ , only with a happy ending.

He is still sleeping when she returns to his room. There’s no jet lag excuse this time, there is only a one-hour difference from London, and Cersei decides he’s slept enough. She drops the bags with her purchases by the door (there’s always too many of them), and she shrugs off her coat. She slips out of her dress ad underwear too, takes off her shoes, and leaves it all bundled up on the floor, kneeling on the mattress and looking down at him. Jaime sleep beautifully: he looks like a god in a Greek sculpture, all tones muscle and sharp angles. She aches to touch herself, look at him and moan his name without him knowing. Instead she pulls the covers away and smirks when he’s naked underneath. She knows he’s been expecting her.

Cersei sucks his limp cock between her lips, works him as he sleeps and his body responds slowly. But it does, and Jaime hardens under her tongue divinely. She chuckles when she sees the smirk on his face; his eyes are still closed but she can see he’s awake by how his eyelids flutter and the muscles of his stomach quiver every time she takes him in. He throws an arm over his eyes, and inhales deeply. “Well, good morning.”

She sits back on her heels, massages his inner thighs before climbing atop him, pressing her hands down on his chest. “It’s afternoon,” she says, grinding over his cock. “And I want to play a game.”

“Do you?” he asks playfully. He still has sleep in his eyes, but his hands grab her hips eagerly and his voice is husky and hungry. She nods, licks her lips and grabs his cock again, teasing him at her core before sinking down onto him torturously slow. She can almost hear the grinding of his teeth, and the accelerating heartbeat in his ribcage, right beneath her sprawled fingertips.

Cersei rolls her hips lazily, and she knows it’s maddening for him; his grip tightens and he tries to urge her movements, but she stands her ground and keeps it slow. She moans low in her throat and bites her tongue between her front teeth; he slams into her, regardless, and she gasps, pressing harder against his abs to keep him schooled.

“I want you to come only when I allow you to,” she murmurs.

Jaime opens his mouth to protest but she’s quicker and covers it with her hand,  shaking her head slowly as her hips keep up her slow pace; he bites at her fingers, frustration written all over his face. He closes his eyes again, rolls his head back, an attempt at gathering all of his will. “Fuck off, Cersei,” he snaps back, and she slaps him. His cheek reddens quickly, but that’s how he knows he has no chance to win against her, not this time. Besides, she sees the glint in his eye, a sparkle, and she wonders if she should hit him again, if he would like it.

As she fucks him, she puts on a show of languid stares, and loud moaning, and all the things she knows drive him off the wall. His brother is a voyeur, in a certain way: she knows she could make him come with a few words and the right thrust of her hips. He watches her rabidly, ensnared, like a cobra would its master. She, on her part, pays him like a violin, pinching all the right chords at the right time. There’s a drop of sweat on his temple, and she bends down to lick it off. He takes advantage, darts his tongue out and pulls a nipple between his teeth, nibbling, biting. She lets him, shuts her eyes and enjoys the jolt of electricity that runs down to her lower stomach; she almost forgets what she’s doing, and her hips slam down on him harder, eliciting a groan from him that makes her shiver.

He’s not looking at her anymore, and she chuckles amongst her own labored breaths, thoroughly amused that he has to focus his mind elsewhere to play by her rules. She wonders who he’s thinking off to keep from losing it. “Are you going to beg me?” she whispers, lowering herself on him even slower, inch by inch, her nails digging in the rough skin of his chest. “Beg me, Jaime.”

Jaime’s eyes shoot open and he looks at her with a fury that only heightens the tingling in her abdomen. She sees the inner battle waging inside him, pride against need, and she smiles seductively to urge him on. He swallows, his lips set in a thin line as the sweat coats his neck with the struggle of holding back.  He speaks then, not even a whisper. “Please,” he breathes.

He breaks too easily. She smiles.

“Take me.”

 

**5\. Sydney**

Cersei sits on his bed, reading a book. The cover is a light blue, the title is in big white capital letters, but he can’t read it from where he’s sitting, by the fireplace. It’s nice of the company to give him the luxury suite; then again, he is the boss’ son, he could have everything he wants. He just never asks for it because all he wants is what is on his bed right now. (Sometimes he thinks it’s sad, that all he wants from his life is a plane in his hands and his sister underneath his own body. Sometimes he doesn’t care at all.) He’s stopped paying attention to the folder in his hands ten minutes before, when his sister sighed and turned a page and gained his whole attention for himself. Jaime hasn’t torn his stare from her ever since.

“How long have you had reading glasses for?” he asks out of the blue. She looks up, glancing at him over the black-rimmed spectacles, then returns her eyes on the page, turns it, shrugs and keeps reading. “Jesus Christ, I’m getting old,” he adds, sinking into the chair and stretching his legs before him.

“Watch what you say, we’re the same age,” she chastises him, never looking up from the book she seems so engrossed in. “You’re not old,” she states, but he knows what she is really trying to say is _I am not old_. It’s absolutely ridiculous, Jaime thinks, that she would even need reassurance. His eyes travel up her legs, halt mid-thigh where his shirt covers the rest. His sister is thirty-eight, and much better looking than half the young things he’s met in his life.

He squints, rolls his head on the back of the chair but never takes his eyes off her. He drops the folder, and it falls gracefully to the floor with a soft thud.

“Touch yourself.”

That seems to surprise her, and she lowers the open book in her lap. “Pardon me?”

He smirks. “I said, touch yourself.” He feels cocky, arrogant, so sure of himself that he doesn’t even move. He just sits lazily in his chair, with that smug grin across his face, knowing eventually he will have his way. Cersei is not one to shy away from a challenge, for it would wound her ego. And it’s a trick really, because in the challenge lies his own satisfaction. “I want to see you. I want to know what it’s like when I am away and you are not on duty. I want to see how you cope without me. I want to hear how you say my name when I am not there.”

Jaime has thought about this on more than one occasion. Sometimes, when she’s not with him, he closes his eyes in whatever country he’s in and thinks about her, sprawled on her bed like he was used to seeing her, with her hand between her legs, whispering his name. But imagining is one thing: he has a chance to watch the real thing now, with his own eyes, and it’s a privilege he intends on having all to himself for one night.

“Come on,” he insists, pouting like a child. “Do it for me.”

“You are a rare specimen, Jaime Lannister,” Cersei argues, taking off her glasses, and it’s that action that makes his smile grow wider. He almost retorts that whatever specimen he is, she is as well, but she throws the book to the side and kneels on the bedroom. He sits up, swallows around the lump in his throat and steadies his breathing when she starts unbuttoning the shirt. The long hair covers her breasts when she pushes the fabric over her shoulder, letting it pool around her knees; she sits back on her heels and spreads her legs. Jaime imagines himself beneath her, and his erection strains painfully against his trousers.

She locks her stare onto his, an invisible link that leaves him breathless. He doesn’t see her hand sneaking down her stomach and disappearing between her legs until she snaps her eyes closed and breaks eye contact. Eventually he allows himself to watch, wordlessly. He looks at her knuckles, how her wrist flexes as she works herself to bliss, and when she throws her head back and starts breathing heavily he stands up without his knowledge. She moves her hand further, and she gasps when she slides a finger inside. He wants to bite her lip the way she’s doing, wants to bury himself inside her, wants to grab her hand and lick each finger, taste her and feel all of her on his tongue.

Only when she says his name, halfway between a whisper and a moan, he takes a step and another, nearing the bed and sitting down on it. His sister’s eyes are closed, and the image burns itself in his memory forever, etched on the walls of his skull for him to carry like a locket. He crawls next to her, and she opens her eyes, but her fingers speed up and so does her panting. He brushes the hair from her front, kneeling beside her, and kisses her neck. He doesn’t touch her, no: this has to be her, he is not supposed to be here. He just sucks on her pulse at the base of her throat, long and hard, and she says his name again.

It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.


End file.
